


Remember When It Used To Snow

by syrupwit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol Fusion, Gen, Mild Gore, ignores comics canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: A Christmas Carol, Trager style.





	Remember When It Used To Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verruckteig](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=verruckteig).



> Gift for Tumblr user verrucktteig for the Outlast Secret Santa 2018 :D
> 
> Title from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKoXmtdcJHo

Rick Trager awoke with a start at his desk. It was dark in his office. Technically it was always dark in his office as, like the rest of the executive offices at Murkoff's Mount Massive Asylum site, it was located many feet underground. However, his office, not to mention the the hallway outside it, was usually lit.  
  
Rick readjusted his glasses, which he had fallen asleep wearing. He jimmied his mouse until the screensaver went away, and blinked blearily at the calendar display on his computer. **_December 24th, 2011, 11:54 PM_**. Well, fuck. He'd managed to pass out and oversleep on Christmas Eve, just before one of the few holidays when Mount Massive personnel were allowed to return to their families. Had Jer slipped something into their lunchtime eggnog punch? Little weasel. Rick would have to figure out a way to pay him back.  
  
It barely occurred to him that he would be alone on Christmas. It wasn't like anyone was out there waiting for him, anyway.  
  
Rick rose, stretched -- ugh, his neck muscles were clenched tighter than a nun's asshole -- and started hunting for change in the monitor's blue light. Hopefully at least one of the vending machines would be operational. He had a bottle of scotch stashed in his bottom drawer and good coke in the bookcase, but he wasn't keen on dying of dehydration yet.  
  
It took him a moment to realize that the room had been getting steadily darker. It wasn't just the lack of lighting. It was as if the air itself had thickened, merged with something that blocked out light. Like smoke, but he didn't smell smoke.  
  
Was someone humming? Rick sensed -- yeah, cheesy, whatever, but -- he sensed a presence. Then he felt eyes on him.

"Hello?" he called. "Anyone there?" He reached for the extra-sharp scissors he used to open letters.

A man's silhouette coalesced out of the darkness.

"Trager."

 _Don't panic_ , Rick told himself, and tightened his grip on the scissors. "Uh, hi, buddy. Mind stepping into the light? Can't see you that well."

The man glided closer. He was tall, dressed in a bullet-ridden jacket and street clothes, and his hands and arms were soaked with blood. His eyes, which narrowed as they spotted the scissors, were pure black. Then his whole body was black, his outline wavered like a glitching TV, his face became a nightmare mask of --

"Who are you?"

"I would say I'm your conscience," said the man, "but we both know you don't have one. You can call me... the Spirit of Christmas."

While Rick was processing that, a clock struck. It struck again, then again, then nine more times. It sounded like an old clock from a PBS Christmas special. None such clock existed in the facility.

"Well, would you look at that," said the Spirit of Christmas, examining his bare wrist. "Midnight on the dot. Time to get in the fucking pumpkin, Cinderella."

"What --"

The Spirit of Christmas knocked the scissors out of Rick's hand and grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise. "Hold on."

Then they were rushing up through a tunnel or something, pitch black, and Rick must have passed out again because he opened his eyes and the landscape around them was entirely different.

-

They were standing by a trailer park at the side of a desolate desert road. Telephone poles stretched toward distant blue mountains in one direction, low brown hills in another. The sky was the color of rusty water. A sense of doom and oppression hung over the place like a cloud. So did actual clouds. Also there was a bulldozer.

"Say, what's the big idea?" Trager turned to the Spirit of Christmas and found an unexpected figure in his place: a paper-skinned old baldy in biohazard scrubs, hooked up to a ventilator and sitting in a wheelchair.

" _Doc_? Dr. Wernicke? Now I know I'm going crazy."

"You know me as Dr. Rudolf Wernicke, the venerated scientist and researcher, but for the purposes of this evening you may refer to me as the Ghost of Christmas Past."

"So what, you expect me to believe you kicked the bucket in the, ah," Rick thought back, "fourteen or so hours since the last board meeting? You were looking pretty spry then. Relatively speaking."

"I am not the real Dr. Wernicke, Mr. Trager. I am just the conception of him that exists within your mind." Wernicke wheeled around to look Rick gravely in the eye. "For example, the real Doctor wouldn't be able to tolerate this environment for very long. In addition, if you examine my ventilator, you will find it is not assembled correctly, as you haven't paid much attention to it and do not understand how it works. Finally, _I_ am substantially more likely to make offensive jokes about my ethnicity and history in a manner that amuses you. For example--"

Rick cut him off. "Fine, fine, you senile old Nazi. Let's just get this over with, this lesson or whatever."

Fake Wernicke pursed his lips. "Follow me."

As they neared the trailer park, it became apparent that a scene of some emotion was in progress. An old woman knelt sobbing in the dirt. Behind her stood a rag-tag collection of youths, their ages ranging from elementary school to post-adolescent. Their faces bore looks of terror, mutiny, and boredom. Several of them were wearing party hats.

"It's Christmas! This is our _home_! Why are you doing this?"

A visibly uncomfortable Murkoff security guard said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the order is clear. You need to be off the property within an hour, or else we'll have to escort you to the county jail."

"Have you no morals?" the woman sobbed. "Have you no heart? We have nowhere to go! My precious children... And on Christmas, no less..."

"Uh, ma'am, I can see if maybe we can put you up in a motel for the night? Just, if you cooperate, maybe we could? I'll just go and ask my supervisor here--"

"No need," announced an uncannily familiar voice. Rick watched his younger self step down from the bulldozer. Damn, his hair looked good. He touched his own hair and winced to find it thinning. "I can tell you now, Harris, that's a no. Lady, tell your brats to grab their shit and get ready. We're taking you all downtown."

"But sir--"

"What's that, Harris?" Rick couldn't see his own face, but he could imagine the expression on it.

"...nothing, sir."

"Now go and supervise the little tykes. Make sure they don't get any funny ideas."

"Yes, sir."

The old woman was staring at Younger Rick. "Ricky? Is that you?"

Younger Rick gave her a once-over, then smiled like a shark. "Hi, Ma."

"Ricky... I haven't seen you in so long..." The woman shook her head as if to clear it. "How have you been? What are you doing now? We haven't heard from you in years."

"I'm fine, Ma. Doing great, actually." Rick's younger self winked. "Kind of a Christmas miracle, isn't it?"

The woman got on her feet and approached Rick's younger self with open arms. "A miracle! Oh, I'm so happy. My little Ricky, home again... You won't evict us, will you?" There was a note of wistful hope in her voice.

At the same time, Harris came back with the kids, toting duffle bags and pillowcases. One girl had a doll.

Rick's younger self laughed. Cackled, really. The woman's face fell.

"Fat chance, Ma." He raised his voice. "Harris! Get her in cuffs. The sheriff's department is waiting."

Rick's younger self turned away and got back into the bulldozer while his mother began to cry again, the children's voices joining her.

"Harsh," mused Wernicke, as the memory faded away.

"Eh, not really. She was a crappy mother and an even worse foster mother." Rick frowned. "And who are you to talk about harsh, Herr Paperclip?"

"You don't feel even a little bit guilty?"

"I saved them a night of homelessness, didn't I?"

"In the county jail."

"Still." Rick shrugged.

"Would you be any more likely to feel remorse if I showed you what became of those children's lives?"

"Nope."

Wernicke sighed. "Very well, then. We shall continue." He seized Rick's wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. Then they were rushing through the black tunnel again, impossible to tell in which direction, and Rick lost consciousness once more.

-

Rick found himself alone on a busy urban street at night.

"Doc?" he called. "Wernicke? Where'd you go?" There was no sign of the nonagenarian.

A pedestrian seemed to startle, then walked towards him. Rick dodged them and gave them a push for good measure, but his hands went right through their winter coat.

Snow was falling. Brightly lit Christmas displays wrestled for attention along the downtown walk. Shoppers were hurrying this way and that, their arms full of parcels and bags. Couples strolled arm in arm, sipping hot chocolate and gazing at the lights. A child in a bobble hat caught snowflakes on his tongue. Somewhere in the distance, holiday music blared over a loudspeaker. In short, it was festive. Rick didn't notice his companion until he tapped him on the shoulder.

"Uh, who are you?"

The patient raised the skin over the ridges where his eyebrows should have been. "You don't recognize me?"

"Should I?"

"Unbelievable," the patient muttered, then raised his voice. "I'm David Annapurna. You know, the guy you had falsely imprisoned for trying to resign?"

"David..." Rick realized. "Huh. Rough deal, buddy."

"I'll say," snapped Annapurna. "Did you know I'm technically dead right now?"

"Well, you don't look it!" Rick tried for a hearty chuckle. "You know how it goes, business is business. What do you say? No hard feelings?"

"First of all, fuck you, and second, we don't have time to stand around discussing my feelings."

"We don't? I thought this was the point of this kind of thing. Vengeful ghost, whatever."

"I'm not just any ghost, asshole. I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present." A sudden breeze had Annapurna looking skyward. "You'd better buckle up, because we have a few places to visit tonight."

A draft buoyed the two of them aloft, much gentler than the tunnel sensation but no less insistent. Rick and Annapurna were soon soaring over the city.

"You know, when you look at the world like this, it makes everything seem so small. Buildings, cars, people... Those tiny little problems we spend so much time worrying about..."

"I'm not here to teach you a lesson about perspective, Trager."

"All right, all right."

The draft bore them past downtown, past the outer city, to a suburban residential area. They circled down and soon drifted towards the second floor of an apartment complex.

A window was illuminated. Inside there was an unlit, barren Christmas tree, at the foot of which a young woman sat weeping.

"Hold on, Dani, I'll get the instruction manual," said someone from the other room.

"It doesn't matter," the woman sobbed. "Christmas just isn't the same without David."

Rick craned his neck to get a closer look, but the Ghost of Christmas Present blocked his vision. "That's all you were meant to see here."

"Was that your girlfriend?" Rick asked, as the wind bore them once more into the air.

"Sister."

"Kind of a looker, isn't she."

Annapurna gritted his teeth and did not reply.

The tour of suburban Denver took them past similar scenes involving Mount Massive patients' family members. Rick was starting to yawn when the wind finally picked up again.

"Where to now?" The ground was getting further and further away. The stars glittered above them, numerous and bright in the clear mountain air.

"Your guess."

Mount Massive lurched into view like a drunk clown late to a toddler's birthday party. There was the asylum, nestled at its foot like a smashed egg, or maybe a broken magic eight ball. Did clowns use those? Who fucking knew.

"Noooooo," Rick groaned as they neared the snowy gates. "Don't we spend enough time in this place?"

They glided over the gates, over the administrative building, to the wards where patients were housed. Rick was used to their tics and sighs, their verbal diarrhea, the way one or two of them would occasionally break into screams and try to dash his head on a padded wall. Walker was looking bigger. Archimbaud -- wow, lucky his arms were in a straitjacket, what with how he was fidgeting. He felt nothing. Annapurna took him down to the Morphogenic Engine, its subterranean hallways that stunk of hate and despair, and it didn't phase him a whit.

"That all you got?" he asked.

Annapurna trained dead eyes on him. Ha. Dead.

Rick's answer came in the form of a yank to his forearm, and then he was speeding headlong through the tunnel again.

-

The first thing he noticed was the smell. Blood and shit, sure, with a frisson of vomit. Under that, though, there was something much worse -- something he'd never smelled before and never wanted to smell again.

He was in the lobby of the asylum, and he couldn't move. Darkness pressed him like a vise. He didn't know how long he waited until someone cleared their throat behind him.

"Jer?"

"Hey, Ricky." The smile Jer mustered had lost its shine. His face was pale and sweaty, and his body below the waist was -- gone. Nothing there. Just head, arms, chest, and his entrails hanging out, wiggling in midair. Yikes.

"Wild night?" Rick ventured.

"You could say so."

"Got a lesson for me?"

Jer shrugged. It did some seriously sick things to his large intestine. "Something like that."

"And I'm guessing you're the --

"Ghost of Christmas Future."

"Lead on, then."

They didn't have far to go. Jer brought him to the elevator room, and there he saw...

"Where the hell are my pants?" That wasn't remotely the first thing on Rick's mind, but it made for a start.

"I was asking myself the same question."

They both stared at the messed up corpse that had presumably once been Rick.

"So this whole thing goes south and we both get screwed over?"

"Basically."

"Basically?"

"Well," said Jer, and Rick saw at once what he was hiding.

"Bastard! What did you do to me?"

"I didn't technically  _do_ \--"

"You threw me over?" Rick snarled. " _You got me committed?_ "

"You were a liability, Ricky!" Jer's words rang with the shrill hope of conviction.

"Fuck you, you fucking weasel. If I was a liability, so were you."

"At least I was discreet."

"Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck you_ \--"

"Gentlemen."

Jer -- Jeremy, fuck him -- froze in place. Rick turned his face defiantly toward his adversary. The Spirit of Christmas descended towards them, a faint smile on its demented face.

"I'd like to talk to Richard alone, Blaire."

"I, uh. Okay."

Rick stared in disbelief as Jeremy scuttled away. Or did the equivalent action to scuttling when one had no legs.

"Who exactly are you?"

The Spirit said, "I'm your god. I'm your worst nightmare. I'm the buzzing inside your bones. I'm the Walrider. And I'm Miles."

"Well, okay."

The Spirit asked, "Do you have anything to say to me? To anyone?"

"Not really," said Rick. "I'd just like to go back to my office."

"Okay." The corners of Miles' mouth turned up in a rictus grin. "Be seeing you."

Then he was gone, and Rick was -- Rick was --

-

On September 18, 2013 at 12:01 AM, "Doctor" Richard Trager awoke from unusual dreams to find himself still locked in his cell at Mount Massive Asylum. He grumbled, turned over, and went back to sleep.

A few hours later, everything changed.


End file.
